They Suffer for the World
by JantoJones
Summary: Alexander Waverly and Illya Kuryakin find themselves caught up with Thrush.


"I'm sorry that you have been landed with a job which is below your rank and abilities, Mr Kuryakin."

In the driver's seat of the inconspicuous town car, Illya smiled at the genuine regret in Mr Waverly's voice.

"Working for U.N.C.L.E. I have learned that no job is below me," he replied. "Besides, chauffeuring important people is one of the many duties I am often required to perform. It is actually rather enjoyable to have a relatively relaxing day of driving."

"That's the spirit young man," Waverly chuckled, before returning to the papers he'd been given at the meeting he had just attended.

Illya had ended up with the job of driving his boss, to the meeting outside of the city, mainly because he owed the head of Section 3 a favour. Rudolph Keller had messed up his schedule and had somehow neglected to schedule in a driver for Waverly. Unable to rectify the problem, he had turned to Illya for help. The Russian, who thanks to still being on supposed light duty following injury, volunteered to do the job. Illya was, in his own opinion, fit enough to return to full duty, but his doctor had put his foot down this time, and insisted that he remain out of the field until he was told otherwise.

The journey continued in silence until Illya muttered an expletive. Waverly looked up to see what had annoyed his agent, and found that they were caught up in traffic. The hold-up was being caused by a large truck, which was being loaded from an innocuous looking building. Mr Waverly absently glanced into the back of the truck, and was just in time to see two of the loaders drop one of the wooden crates they were handling. As the crate landed, on its side, the lid broke off and some of the contents, several high-powered rifles, spilled out. They were quickly picked up, but not before Waverly and Kuryakin saw a well-known bird symbol on the butts.

"Pull up along the street, Mr Kuryakin," Waverly instructed.

"I was not seeing things then," Illya stated, when he'd brought the vehicle to a stop.

"Indeed not. It would appear we have stumbled upon a Thrush weapons cache. We shall follow the truck when it moves off."

"Should I advise headquarters, Sir?" Illya asked, assembling his communicator.

"Not yet, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly told him. "We shall observe where it goes first and then organise a proper raid when we return to the office.

Illya shrugged and put the communicator away again. He was a little uneasy about having the Old Man along on the impromptu surveillance operation. It wasn't unknown for Waverly to get in on the action, and Illya didn't expect trouble, but he was worried that his attention could be split if things did get difficult.

A short while later, the truck pulled out into the flow of traffic. Illya waited until it passed him before muscling his way in, two cars behind the truck.

…...

Roddy Larson, a standard low-level Thrush grunt, checked the side mirror for the tenth time in a minute.

"What's got you so antsy?" his buddy, Pete, asked. "Are the police on our tail?"

Pete Hall was a little rattled himself. If anyone had seen what their load was it could mean trouble, and not just from law enforcement. Thrush took a dim view of anyone who made stupid little mistakes.

"Not the police, but we have had company for the last few miles," Roddy answered. "I'm not entirely sure, but the guy looks a lot like U.N.C.L.E.'s pet Russian, Kuryakin."

Pete frowned. Attracting the attention of the local cops would have been far more preferable than having U.N.C.L.E. take an interest.

"I'll get on to HQ, and tell them to track us," he told Roddy. "I reckon you should take our tail on a mystery tour."

…..

Illya followed the truck for over an hour and soon began to feel a sense of foreboding. The route it was taking seemed unnecessarily convoluted. Admittedly, it was a tactic they themselves often used to confuse anyone who may be following, but this route was far too elaborate. He was fairly certain that the truck driver knew he was being followed.

"I share your concern, Mr Kuryakin," Waverly said, when he noticed the hyper-alert body language his agent was starting to exhibit. "Drop back a little way."

"If you'll excuse me, Sir," Illya replied. "I think we should drop out altogether. While I acknowledge the importance of knowing where the truck is going, I have no doubt they will have called for back-up. You are too great a prize for Thrush to get their hands on."

Waverly harrumphed, though not at his agent's suggestion. Kuryakin was quite correct in what he said. They would simply have to put losing the truck down to the fortunes of war.

"Very well, Mr Kuryakin. We'll head home. I will, of course, dispatch you and Mr Solo to the address where the truck was being loaded."

Illya pulled the car to the side of the road to give the truck a chance to get out of sight. However, as he did so, they suddenly found themselves boxed in by three vehicles. Only the passenger side was left clear but, as Illya and Waverly made to get out of that side, two gunmen appeared. One of them smashed the rear passenger window with the butt of his pistol, and lobbed in a gas grenade. The two U.N.C.L.E. men were unconscious almost immediately. Waverly had managed to get his fingers on the distress beacon embedded in his cufflink, but had been too late to activate it.

….

"Anything?" Napoleon Solo demanded, as he paced back and forth in the communications centre of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

Upon leaving his meeting, Mr Waverly had advised Napoleon that he would check in when they were halfway home. Even allowing for traffic, the check in was already thirty-five minutes late. Plus, if there had been a delay, either Waverly, or Illya, would have called in. Napoleon had tried, unsuccessfully, to contact both of them. He'd also instructed Jane in communications to do the same.

"Can you pinpoint the tracker in the car?" he asked.

Napoleon paced in silence while he awaited the results of the trace. When they came, they did nothing to assuage his feelings of disquiet. They vehicle was apparently stationary, and was miles away from any road it should have been on.

"Keep trying to make contact," he instructed Jane, "I'm going to find their car. If you make contact, or the car moves, tell me immediately."

…

Illya moaned as he re-entered the waking world, but kept his eyes closed. A sick headache told him that he'd been a victim of another Thrush drug, so he knew that opening his eyes would only make it worse. The memory of the events leading up to the headache made itself known at the forefront of his mind, and Illya's eyes opened wide.

In front of him, slumped in a chair and tied with rope, he saw Alexander Waverly. Illya initially panicked that the Old Man was dead, until he saw the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was so concerned with his boss's wellbeing, that it took him longer than usual to realise his own predicament.

Illya was standing, spread-eagled, in a wooden frame. All four limbs were stretched, as far as they would go, with steel shackles and chains. His mouth was stuffed with some sort of cloth, and a piece of tape was stuck over his lips to prevent him from spitting it out. As Waverly wasn't gagged, Illya quickly understood what was going to happen. Their captor was clearly going to question the Old Man, using Illya as incentive.

He was always apprehensive when he knew he was in for a torture session, but this time it somehow felt much worse. Illya knew that Mr Waverly wouldn't give any quarter, which would mean much more torment him. Of course, he acknowledged this, but the dread of it was causing his stomach to perform somersaults.

Unable to see the space behind him, though he assumed there was room for someone to swing a whip, Illya took in what he was able to see. From what he could tell, they had apparently been brought to some sort of industrial complex. There was no furniture save for Waverly's chair and, along the same wall as the door, there was long table. The door itself was to Illya's right, but there didn't seem to be any windows.

There were things on the table which were covered by an ominous black cloth. Illya got the feeling he would soon be getting up close and personal with whatever was hidden beneath it.

A groan came from Mr Waverly, and Illya watched him as he came around. It didn't take long for his boss to get a grasp on the situation.

"We seem to be in a spot of bother, Mr Kuryakin," he said drily, as he tested the ropes binding his wrists to the arms of the chair. "I fear things are going to become quite uncomfortable for you. I'm truly sorry, Illya, but I can't spare you the torment which is coming."

Illya shrugged as much as he was able, touched that the older man felt the need to use his given name. He tried to convey in one gesture that he fully understood his boss's position, and that he accepted his fate. His future looked to be short, and filled with agony, but he knew that Waverly would not put the world at risk for the sake of one agent.

Alexander Waverly studied his agent carefully. He was in no doubt that the young man was afraid, but he could see no outward signs of it. In spite of the way he was strung up, Mr Kuryakin was giving off an air of casual indifference. Waverly had been told many times, usually by Mr Solo, of the Russian's infuriatingly calm manner in the face of the enemy, but had never thought he'd witness it. He was under no delusion that the calmness would dissipate as soon as any torture began, but he couldn't help but admire the man's tenacity. He obviously wasted no energy fighting against something he couldn't change; saving it for when it was needed. Mr Waverly offered Illya an encouraging smile, though he couldn't truly put the sentiment behind it.

Two minutes later the door to the room opened and three people entered. The first was an impossibly attractive woman, in her mid-fifties, with olive skin, jet black hair, and dark eyes. She was dressed in the latest in business couture; a pale pink skirt and jacket, with a cerise pink blouse and matching shoes and purse. Everything about her screamed that she was a paragon of style and elegance.

Behind her there came two heavyset men. With their broken noses and teeth, they had obviously seen their fair share of brawls. Neither Illya nor Mr Waverly were in any doubt as to the purpose of their presence. One of them was carrying a comfortable looking armchair, which he placed alongside the plain one in which Waverly sat. It was set at a slight angle so that the occupant could talk to her seated captive while watching the other. The elegant woman gracefully sat down and smiled warmly.

"Allow me to introduce myself," she purred huskily. "I am Olivia Lupo, and I am simply ecstatic to have caught myself one of the biggest fish in U.N.C.L.E.

She held a hand out for Mr Waverly to kiss. Unable to take it in his own hand, he had to settle for leaning towards it.

"Such impeccable manners," Miss Lupo complimented him. "I hope you don't mind me mentioning this but, if I were you, I'd be very unhappy that my bodyguard had failed me so utterly."

"He has performed his duties admirably," Waverly replied, keeping his voice neutral.

"My, my, such loyalty to a subordinate. Anyway, onto the business at hand."

With a sweeping gesture, she indicated for one of her men to remove the cloth from the table. Illya tried not to react to what was revealed, but he could stop himself from gasping at the various methods of causing pain. Luckily, the gasp was muffled by the stuffing in mouth. He looked to Waverly, and could read the, almost imperceptible, horror in his eyes. There were various whips, straps, and cudgels, alongside knives and methods of electrocution.

"You're a smart man, Alexander," Miss Lupo continued. "I'm sure you understand what is about to happen to your young man over there."

"I am the one from whom you wish to extract information," Waverly told her. "This young man is merely my driver."

"Now, now, there's no need to insult my intelligence," the woman cooed. "We know exactly who Mr Kuryakin is. If you were suggesting that it is you on whom we should be trying our physical persuasions, then that is out of the question. Leaving aside that a man of your years may expire too quickly, you are far too valuable to Thrush. No, we are hoping that you will have some compassion for your man, and prevent his pain."

"I'm terribly sorry my dear, but Mr Kuryakin knows where I stand," Waverly told her. "You will get nothing from me."

"So be it," she snarled. "Just so you know, once I have finished with Mr Kuryakin, you will be transported to a secure Thrush unit. Once there, you will be handed to men with more sophisticated equipment than I, who will use other techniques to extract what they want to know. Now, let me give the young man a small taster of what he can expect."

As one of the henchmen made a great play of readying a vicious looking bullwhip, the other cut the clothing from Illya's upper body. The Russian closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. Illya had been whipped a few times in the past but it was never something he could get used to, or properly prepare for.

As the first blow landed, it took all of his willpower not to react. He felt certain that his resolve wouldn't last long.

….

Napoleon, and Section 2 agent Phil Vincent, made their way to the location of the car in record breaking time. Finding it devoid of Waverly and Illya, Napoleon's fears knotted up in his chest. The broken window caused the knot to plummet into his stomach.

"See if you can find anything," he ordered.

Phil climbed into the back, while Napoleon got into the driver's seat. Almost instantly, Phil found the remnants of the gas grenade and showed them to Solo.

"This doesn't bode well," he said.

"Neither does this," Napoleon replied, holding up the broken pieces of two communicators.

Neither man needed to voice what they believed had happened, as it was obvious to anyone.

….

Following twenty heavy strokes of the whip, Illya was shaking from the pain, and was unable to stop himself from grunting in response to each one. His back was burning, and each stoke intensified the hurt tenfold. Miss Lupo motioned for the whipping to stop with an almost dismissive gesture.

"I am very impressed, Alexander," she breathed, with a note of admiration in her voice. "I've seen lesser men pass out after only half that kind of punishment."

Waverly said nothing, but he too was surprised at how well Kuryakin had withstood the onslaught. Part of him was beginning to wonder if the stories surrounding Kuryakin's exceptional stamina were true. Not that it had made watching the whipping any easier. Waverly was far from naïve when it came to the ways of Thrush, but it had been such a long time since he'd been witness to their methods.

It caused him ponder the terrible danger his agents were sent into; or rather, that he sent them into. The young people under his command were all aware of what they had signed up for, but Waverly couldn't help but reflect on the burden of being the one to give the orders. The worst part, he realised, was that he would continue to send these agents into impossible situations. The life of one agent could pay for the lives of millions. Some would say it was too high a price but Waverly, and all those he commanded, were more than prepared to pay that price.

"Now that you've seen the overture, would you care to offer me anything to ease this poor boy's suffering?" Miss Lupo asked sweetly. "A little tidbit maybe?"

"I'm afraid not," Waverly answered, setting his jaw.

"Are you sure your man here agrees with you?" she turned to Illya. "You would like your employer to give up his secrets, wouldn't you? You want him to save that beautiful skin of yours?"

Illya shook his head emphatically, and yelled something unintelligible through the gag.

"Oh dear, and he has such an attractive body, Alexander. It's almost a shame to destroy it."

Miss Lupo nodded to her goons, who immediately began to rain punches against Illya's torso; both front and back. The gusto with which they went about their task was quite sickening.

Throughout the initial whipping, Mr Waverly had been trying, surreptitiously, to contort his hand around to his cufflink, to activate the distress beacon. His fingers weren't as supple as once they had been so it was slow going. However, the blows being endured by Mr Kuryakin spurred him on to redouble his efforts. Finally, after what felt like an aeon, he finally reached his goal.

…

Napoleon was at a complete loss as to what to do. He was lauded as a master strategist, but it was impossible to form any strategy with absolutely no information to go on.

"What do we do?" asked Phil, feeling utterly useless.

"I really don't know, Phil," Napoleon replied, dejected. "I really don't know."

His communicator began to beep in his pocket and Napoleon's, almost absently, pulled it out and assembled it.

"Solo."

"Mr Waverly's distress beacon has been activated," Jane in communications told him excitedly. "It is coming from around twenty miles due north of your current position."

"We're heading there now. Send the first ten available Section 2 and 3 agents you can find to meet us. Tell them not to reveal themselves until they talk to me."

...

Illya's head was hanging limply, with him having finally succumbed to the agony inflicted upon him. The beating had last for well over five minutes, and Waverly had clearly heard the sound of a rib breaking.

"Oh dear, we'll have to postpone further festivities," Miss Lupo said, in her nauseatingly sultry voice. "I'll think I'll go and have a cup of coffee while we wait. We'll leave you and Mr Kuryakin for a spell. Don't get any ideas though, as one of my men will be right outside."

As soon as she and her henchman had gone, Waverly turned his attention to the insensible agent. He frowned deeply, causing his bushy eyebrows to meet. Illya's pale torso was already blossoming with bruises, yet the psychotic woman had barely begun her task. She hadn't even asked any specific questions. It was as though, knowing that Central Command wanted Waverly intact, she was merely indulging her sadistic tendencies.

Taking his eyes from the injured man, Mr Waverly got to work escaping his bonds. Fifty years ago, he would have given young Kuryakin a run for his money in the contortion stakes. These days, the ravages of age, and a more sedentary lifestyle, meant he couldn't do what he used to do. That said, the ropes holding him weren't as tight as they could be. Whoever had tied him had obviously been fooled by his age, and had unwisely thought he was a harmless old man.

With a great deal of puffing and panting, Waverly quite quickly managed to release one hand. He didn't allow himself to celebrate the small victory, however, as he had to get himself and Mr Kuryakin out of there. After finally extricating himself, Waverly was faced with the problem of his agent. He was an old hand at lock-picking, so knew he could release the chains easily. However, there was every chance he would drop the man as he tried to help him down and, with an already broken rib, that would be very bad. There was also the issue of a man of his years trying to hold up a man who was heavier than he looked.

Waverly stepped over to Illya, and patted him softly on the cheek to rouse him. If Illya was surprised to see his boss free, he didn't show it.

"I'm going to remove your gag, Mr Kuryakin," the Old Man told him, "But I'm afraid we don't have time for finesse."

The tape was ripped from Illya's face, causing him to wince. Once the rag was removed from his mouth, he spent a few seconds working his jaw, and trying to produce some moisture to ease the dryness.

"You have to leave, Sir," he whispered hoarsely. "Get reinforcements."

"That is already in hand, my boy," Waverly told him, with a slight smile. "My immediate problem is how to get you down. I can release the chains, but I won't be able to hold you up as I do."

"Please, Sir. If help is coming, then get yourself free."

"If I release your feet first, do you have enough strength to hold yourself up," Waverly asked, completely ignoring Illya's plea.

"Yes," the younger man replied, realising that it was useless to try and persuade the other man. "If you put one of the chairs behind me, I shall try and fall into it when you get my hands free."

Partly out of concern for the injured man, and partly out of pure vindictiveness, Waverly chose Miss Lupo's more comfortable chair, and placed it behind Illya. Then, with a small amount of difficulty, he knelt down and picked the locks holding the shackles on the agent's ankles. It took Illya a monumental effort, but he managed to stand and carry his own weight. He wasn't sure how long he would last.

"Release my right arm first," he instructed.

The Old Man did as he was asked; understanding that Illya's broken rib was on the left side. He swiftly released the shackle and carefully held onto the younger man's arm, helping him to lower it slowly. This was the stage where things were going to get challenging for them both.

"Can you brace yourself against my shoulder?"

Illya tried to grab hold with his hand but, having it raised for too long had numbed it, and he couldn't feel what he was doing. Instead, he laid his forearm on his boss's shoulder.

"Very good," Waverly assured him. "When I free the other arm, I'll try to guide you, but it is still going to hurt when you go down."

"Don't worry, Sir. I've gone through worse."

Indeed you have, Mr Waverly thought to himself, as the last chain was removed. He marvelled at the effort Mr Kuryakin was exerting so as not to put too much of his weight onto him. Very slowly, the Old Man bent forward, allowing Illya to get as close to the chair as possible before dropping into it.

The Russian bit back a cry as his shredded back, and broken rib, protested at the move.

"Sir, you have to go now," he gasped. "I can barely move and, forgive my frankness, but you will be unable to support me for long. I am expendable. You are not."

It was something Waverly had told those under his command many times. The truth be told, it was more for himself than it was for them. If he could convince himself of the truth of it, then he would have more chance of staving off the guilt of using the agents as tools. Before Waverly could argue the point with Illya, Olivia Lupo, and her musclemen, re-entered the room.

"Don't worry, Mr Kuryakin," the woman said, while stroking his cheek. "Neither of you is going anywhere."

…..

Napoleon Solo and Phil Vincent squatted down behind a wall outside of the innocuous looking facility. To the casual observer, it looked like any other industrial warehouse. However, the two men knew that Waverly was in there and, hopefully, so was Illya. Napoleon was working on the assumption that the facility was owned by Thrush, which suggested that Waverly at least would still be alive. Even the most useless Thrush would understand the value of such an asset. He was trying hard not to think about the possible fate of his partner.

A little way down the street Napoleon was almost overjoyed to see an U.N.C.L.E. van park up at the side of the road. At the same time his communicator chirruped for attention.

"Solo,"

"We're ready when you are, Napoleon," came the voice of Mark Slate.

"Okay, come down and get us," he instructed. "We'll surround and storm the building. I want you armed only with darts. Our people are in there somewhere, so we need to limit the chance of crossfire."

….

"Well now, what are we to do with you?" Miss Lupo asked Illya, in a tone more suitable to admonishing a naughty kitten. "Of course, it should be Mr Waverly who is punished, but that simply isn't possible. So, you will have to be his whipping boy, as it were."

Illya made no effort to reply to the woman as he was too angry to form the right words. He was angry that he had been captured so ridiculously easily. He was also angry that he'd allowed his boss to be captured without him doing anything to prevent it. Most of all, he was angry with Mr Waverly. The Old Man could have escaped by now but, instead, he had wasted time trying to free him. It was an endeavour which had been doomed to failure from the start.

The sound of multiple gunshots from somewhere in the facility drew everyone's attention. Miss Lupo ordered her men to go and investigate. She reassured them that she would be fine being left alone with the prisoners, and pulled a pistol from her purse as evidence of this.

"Now, where were we?" she asked, rhetorically. "Oh, I remember. It was time for your punishment. It's going to have to be somewhat permanent, I'm afraid."

Miss Lupo raised the gun and aimed it squarely at Illya's head. However, before she could even think of pulling the trigger, Waverly rushed at her. There was a brief struggle for control of the gun when, with a loud bang, the whole thing ended abruptly.

From where he was sitting, Illya was unable to see who had been hit by the bullet. It wasn't until Miss Lupo dropped to the floor, with a bleeding hole in her chest, that he released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Think nothing of it, Mr Kuryakin."

When the door opened again, both men were relieved to see Napoleon enter.

"Everyone okay?" he asked, taking in the vicious bruising covering Illya's torso, and the blood on Waverly's shirt.

"I'm fine," Mr Waverly told him. "But the same cannot be said about your partner."

"Nothing new there, then," Solo quipped, eliciting a brief smile of amusement from Illya.

...

It was late in the evening when Mr Waverly made his way into the small U.N.C.L.E. medical unit to check up on Illya. Napoleon, having been reassured that his partner was going be okay, had been persuaded to go home by Illya himself. Before reaching the injured agent's room, Mr Waverly checked with the nurses that the young man would indeed recover fully.

"Indeed he will," Nurse Maisie Redfearn confirmed. "Although, he will be very sore for some time to come."

She explained that things were being compounded by his broken rib giving them no choice but to lay him on his back. Ordinarily, with whip injuries they would lay him on his front.

"We've cushioned his back as well as possible, and we've given him the strongest pain meds we can."

"May I go in and see him," Waverly asked.

"Of course, but he may not respond," she told him. "Between the pain meds and the sleep meds, he's been pretty much out of it."

Waverly thanked her and went to take up the position usually occupied by Mr Solo. He'd visited many injured agents throughout the years and, although each one was important, this time felt different. It was more personal.

Mr Waverly would never admit to having favourites amongst his people, but he had quite a soft spot for his top team. Both men were highly trained, ruthless agents and, despite being as different as chalk and cheese, made a partnership which outranked, and outclassed, any he'd ever known. They often tested his patience but he wouldn't have it any other way. Waverly allowed Solo and Kuryakin a fair bit of free rein, which often meant them taking risks he would never have authorised. However, they yielded results.

He gazed at the tormented young man, and once again marvelled at how young, and innocent he looked. No-one could ever have guessed at his painful history, or realised that he had a bloodthirsty streak a mile wide.

The Old Man was suddenly startled to realise that the man in the bed was gazing back at him. His normally bright blue eyes were dulled by the medication he had been given.

"I'm sorry to have woken you," Waverly said tenderly.

"You should have left me," Illya said, his words slurring slightly, but still with an accusatory tone.

"Maybe," Waverly replied, with a shrug. "Perhaps if I'd been a much younger man, on a time sensitive mission, I may have done."

"Had they gotten you to Central, it could have been the end for U.N.C.L.E."

"There is more to this organisation than me," the Old Man told him. "There are numerous contingencies in place should such a thing happen. Also, contrary to what some may think, I'm not a heartless man. It's easy to tell an agent to leave his partner behind from the safety of my office, but it's quite different to be in the thick of it. Besides, I knew the cavalry were on the way."

"Was the facility shut down?"

Waverly smiled inwardly. No matter what Mr Kuryakin went through, his thoughts never seemed to be far from business.

"Indeed it was," he replied. "As was the armament factory where we saw the rifles being loaded. It may have turned out badly for you, but we managed to put a stop to quite a large operation."

"Then it did not turn out badly," Illya mumbled, as his eyes closed and he drifted back into sleep.

Standing up, Waverly patted Illya on the shoulder, before heading off for home

On the bed, Illya felt the Old Man's touch, and smiled softly.


End file.
